


In Unseen Days

by Candentia



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candentia/pseuds/Candentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As woe gives way to well-merited delights, Ishgard opens her gates to old friends and an alliance of three becomes four once more. The Warrior of Light watches and worries far too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Unseen Days

**Author's Note:**

> It was either write this or continue to fight off plot bunnies with a stick. A thousand apologies for a thousand things including but not limited to how self-indulgent this is. [2.5/3.0 spoilers alluded to, of course.]

The night is young, and the skies over Coerthas are clear of both snow and fog for once. Better weather for a party could not be wished for. Festival pipes and violin strings underlay the cheerful murmur of voices as guests mingle freely across the Last Vigil, expressing delight at meeting old faces. Ishgard has been alone for too long, secluded in its barren, icy tower, but the friends it once had are slowly coming back to embrace them into the fold. Three have become four once more.

You are quagmired in ambivalent feelings; the last time you attended such a gathering your entire world was turned upside down, friends lost. Some have been reclaimed. Some have not. The old rage simmers. Laid aside for the time being, but not forgotten. There are certain members of the Ul’dah Syndicate that will remain in your crosshairs until a price is paid in blood, whether they care to recall or not. (The Sultanate may be allayed by gold from extracting their pound of flesh but you are resolute. Vengeance may be selfish, but you have given enough to the world to merit one single selfish act in return.)

The night is young but you feel old.

Alphinaud’s sister swings past you in the arms of a young House Haillenarte swain, aglow with pleasure. Eager to see how others are spending their night under the stars, you nonchalantly walk away and up a discreet staircase that curves around to give a fair long view of the Vigil, all the way up to the Architects. The Vault's facade glows faintly in the distance, more benevolent now that you are comfortable with knowing the evil within has been chased out and dealt with, though what will become of the building and the painful, terrible secrets it housed, _houses_ , is another difficult decision to be made sometime soon in the future.

The Elder Seedseer is easy to pinpoint in the crowd, for she wears the habitual white of her station, in a sea of dark and dramatic colors. She speaks at great length with, a surprise of all surprises, Artoirel, the half-brother of Haurchefant, whose disdain for you had been so thinly veiled the day you’d arrived frozen down to your boots. They appear to be enjoying the topic though you are hard pressed to imagine what those two could share in common.

On the other side of the spectrum, Cid is nodding and making gestures with his hands as the head of the Skysteel Manufactory unrolls a scroll, seemingly showing off a firearm design. Elsewhere, Y’shtola and Tataru peruse the feast set out over many tables. Alphinaud, you catch no glimpse of, but the festivities are not confined strictly to the Pillars.

A respite well-earned. You embrace the quiet certainty that for a fleeting moment, nothing can go wrong.

“May I join you?”

He moved so quietly that you were unaware of his approach until he spoke. He stands several feet away, out of respect, for very well your first instinct might have been to strike out, and then someone might inquire as to why the vaunted Warrior of Light felt the need to smash the nose of Ishgard’s Ser Aymeric. 

A hesitant smile is enough to get him to breach the distance. The ornate pauldrons that lend his shoulders their great width have been newly scrubbed until the aurum gleams, that particular color between bronze and gold that speaks of warmth and solidity.

The balcony ensconces you both from views both below and above save for those most determined to spy. It’s why you instinctively selected it in the first place. So how did he find you?

“I was awaiting a chance to speak to you.” He answers as if the thought were visible. “You have been busy, my friend. As have I.”

A nod. In many ways, he had already been the de facto leader of Ishgard but now even more responsibility falls to him. From the mundane concerns of storing food for scarce harvests to undoing millennia of indoctrinated hatred, all now his to navigate. It is not an enviable position, and you say this as someone who has their own share of dreadful duties that cannot end in anything but success.

The silence between you two is companionable and extended despite his admission. If he’s reluctant to stir the peace, then so are you, as all your dear companions make merry to beguiling music. A wandering minstrel passes beneath the balcony, and though he shouldn’t have known you were there, he bows with flourish as if he does, before going on his way.

“Would you consider it presumptuous if I asked a favor from you?”

You blink; quizzical. What could Aymeric need?

A gesture for him to ask, as if gently saying ‘ _go on, then_ ’.

“Walk with me?” His arm is offered gallantly, a demonstration of all that is proper. No one’s ever offered their arm before. The skepticism on your face is so evident that his lips quirk in a suppressed smile. “If it so pleases you?”

A survey of the stream of life below reaffirms that everything is fine, and will continue to be so without you skulking from above like a guardian gargoyle. Everyone is at leisure and Aymeric does not frivolously seek out one for insipid chatter. Of its own accord, your arm goes over his, though he’s very tall, and that practicality demands that you stand close together since you are not what anyone would call towering. Mindful of this, he matches his steps to yours as you descend and move around the outskirts of the fray.

House Haillenarte is passed, and down the steps you go, kept to a pace by the movement of the crowds. It doesn’t escape your notice that Aymeric has maneuvered the situation so that you walk on his inside, almost entirely hidden in his shadow and out of reach of careless dancers. Such a peculiarly protective thing to do, it leaves you wanting to laugh and feel a little odd since you haven’t needed anyone watching out for you in longer than you care to recall. Or perhaps you simply hadn’t had anyone attempt in longer than you can recall. There is a difference.

It’s dizzying when you happen to glance down over the railing as you cross a bridge, down to the maze of paths that make up the lower levels of Ishgard. For all your adventures that necessitated travel unending, much of the city is unknown to you. How far deep does it go? Does anyone still live down there or were the citizens forced to abandon when eternal winter settled over the land?

Troubling questions. Thancred, bless his heart, would claim you are far too much of a worrier.

Wherever he is.

The farther you go from the Vigil, the thinner the crowd becomes, as well as the intent of those about. Here is where those who value a little privacy for their undertakings have drifted, lovers and the like, retiring to murmur sweet things, no doubt. There’s no reason to begrudge them that, but you do begin to frown as Aymeric’s boon has still not been asked. As nice as you find it to simply walk around and enjoy the sights with a friend, it gives concern to be left in the dark.

“Ser Aymeric?” Your tone is polite but pointed; he should know by now that you rarely deny your friends anything. No matter how hard the task. Or how menial.

“Yes?” His pace does not falter, guiding you both until you aren’t entirely sure where you’re headed, only that you’re circumventing the Jeweled Crozier entirely. The final strains of music take on the aspect of a threnody, echoing faintly from all sides. It tickles a memory that wants to come forward, perhaps a melody that you’ve heard before…

“Your boon?”

Aymeric glances down at your expectant face. “You are granting it as we speak, though I dare say I may impose to request another, should you perchance approve.”

It’s dawning belatedly that this whole situation might not be precisely what you understood it to be, and hardened warriors should not be so easily inclined to redden.

His eyes are far too attentive. You school your features. The last few years in Eorzea, you’ve had cause and opportunity to develop a solid bluff face.

“Did I presume too much?” His voice is soft and rueful, and you’ve both come to a stop before one of the many gardens that dot the Pillars, tucked away in discreet corners. It’s a question that offers an exit, graceful and without censure. You honestly have no idea what to say, mouth suspiciously dry. He either means what you suspect or you are being silly and perceiving romantic allusions where there are none.

Such a long time since your heart beat so fast when your weapon wasn’t in hand. Is it such a bad thing? He’s waiting for an answer, too much of a gentleman to press his suit and much too intelligent to your ways to assume silence is an outright rejection. Your free hand comes to a rest over your heart, as if you could soothe the flutter through leather and cloth.

Aymeric sees past the title, past the accolades and the feats of glory too often wrought in blood and grief. He has become a friend when you felt all too viscerally that you had none left. He is certainly… not repulsive to you, in any approach.

The night is young, and woe’s uncertainty waits in unseen days. You have bested all the obstacles that were set in your path, lost a great deal in those undertakings. You simply can’t imagine what this might mean for the future.

You squeeze his arm and slowly but firmly take his hand. Both are scarred and calloused from constant fighting. His long fingers wrap around yours, equally slow, then a solid pressure.

He smiles, more with his eyes than with his lips, and you can’t help but finally smile back.


End file.
